


All Is Calm, All Is Quiet

by BourbonNeat



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Christmas, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Friends to Lovers, Great Hiatus, M/M, Mystrade Advent Calendar 2017, Tender Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-16
Updated: 2017-12-16
Packaged: 2019-02-15 12:39:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,923
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13031325
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BourbonNeat/pseuds/BourbonNeat
Summary: Set during the hiatus. Reeling in the aftermath of another near miss with Sherlock, Mycroft seeks comfort in Lestrade’s company. This is becoming a bit of a habit. More so than even Lestrade understands.





	All Is Calm, All Is Quiet

**Author's Note:**

> A massive thank you to Mottlemoth and Egmon73 for organizing this Advent calendar. It’s been like Christmas every day with glorious treats for all!
> 
> And many, many thanks to TheRedheadinQuestion for a beta and some crucial advice on an earlier draft. All mistakes are mine.

After three days subsisting on the occasional catnap, bed was starting to call strongly even to a Holmes. But Mycroft returned to his office after the morning’s meetings to prepare for the operation that was foremost on his mind. 

He had deduced all of the details necessary to fill in the gaps in intelligence, handpicked his team, and concluded all necessary briefings. The arms deal was slated to occur in three hours’ time. It was a trap of course, albeit even one that he had to concede was cleverly laid. Still, even traps had their uses. 

He gave the day’s communications another scan, and briefly contemplated the half pack of Dunhills buried in the back of his desk.

James Moriarty’s organization in Russia. In Syria. Germany. Several places much, much closer to home. Eighteen months dead and the wretched man still dominated Mycroft’s time to an appalling degree.

Naturally he did not have anything as helpful as a message from Sherlock outlining his current plan. Or stating his location. Or even just confirming his continued status among the living. After four days of uncomfortable and unplanned silence, Mycroft longed for that last piece of information most of all.

His eyes drifted to the stack containing the report from the abandoned bedsit where Sherlock had been squatting. In Albania. (Still more details his dear brother had left for him to deduce on his own. _You’re the smart one, Mycroft. Figure it out_.) However he analyzed them, the images it contained were alarming, though exactly how alarming required more data than he had at present. Broken furniture. Blood splatter on multiple surfaces. Scores indicating knife play. Five bullets from a 9mm handgun that had missed their mark, and one that had not. Three parties involved. One definitely dead. The fate of the other two uncertain, though both had clearly contributed to the blood splatter. At least one party had survived to dispose of weapons and casualties. Mycroft could see no evidence of anyone else entering the room before the agent he had dispatched.

For the fourth time that day he forcibly pushed the images to the back of his mind. He believed that Sherlock had received his warning in time, that he had noticed a few of the same danger signs that prompted Mycroft to issue the warning on his own besides. He believed Sherlock had been the one lying in wait for the would-be assassins rather than the other way around. That he was now in possession of a new 9mm handgun, most likely Serbian military issue if the pattern they had already established continued, at least one wound in need of stitching, and quite possibly broken ribs as well.

The problem was that Mycroft wanted that outcome badly enough that he knew better than to trust his belief.

If today’s mission didn’t bring the anticipated resolution, he would have to tell Mummy and Father that Sherlock was missing. Dear God, wouldn’t that just set a new standard for horrid in the annals of Holmes family Christmases. And this after last Christmas, with the empty place set for Sherlock and Mummy’s more vocal recriminations peppering the meal. Of course, Sherlock always had been ambitious in this regard.

The thought didn’t even raise a specter of the usual smile.

He needed a cigarette. Christ, did he ever. 

He needed his brother to be alive.

He needed the return of the icy calm that he usually donned like one of his suits.

Mycroft compromised by allowing himself another catnap. That much he could manage immediately.

 

*** * * * ***

 

The fraying fabric of the upholstery was rough against his waist where his shirt had come untucked and ridden up. There was an awkwardly placed bar in the middle of the sofa’s aging frame digging into his hip. The inviting contours of the man he lay tangled up with were at once familiar and not. And the fading scent of aftershave–  

 _On Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade’s sofa,_ his brain supplied. But Mycroft was already smiling, knowing somehow, even before his senses had processed that first observation, who he would find when he opened his eyes.

Dimly he realized that he should be panicking in embarrassment over this – _Had panicked over this?_ – waking up to find himself more or less plastered across a man he had long admired in secret. But Mycroft could not bring himself to care. Not while his head rested against one of the man’s broad shoulders. Not when he could feel the warm expanse of Greg’s chest rising and falling gently in sleep half beneath him.

His face was pressed so closely to Greg’s neck that he could take in the full glory of that jaw, now heavily shadowed with silvering stubble. Christ, but the man was gorgeous, and so unexpectedly right _there_. Mycroft could begin kissing his way up that tempting stretch of throat with only the barest movement, could stretch forward slightly and…

But no, they hadn’t done that before. _Before?_ And just lying here like this was far too delicious to interrupt for any reason.

_Like lovers._

Or, at least, how Mycroft supposed ardent lovers might lie together. He had never wanted to share a bed with a lover, never felt the desire to pull a bed partner into a postcoital embrace. Not that he had received many offers for either during his various encounters. But this was…

His own sigh of utter contentment surprised him as much as the desire to burrow closer, hold tighter. Apparently this was Mycroft Holmes, sleepily cuddling with the handsome Detective Inspector without even the soporific effect of mutual orgasm for explanation.

The next sigh was heavy with regret. Unfortunately, he should stop this now. He knew it couldn’t last past waking. _Didn’t last past waking?_ Because Lestrade – Greg – would never. And Mycroft certainly could not afford… _But that wasn’t the reason…_

Greg stirred slightly in his sleep, murmuring something too low for comprehension. As he settled back down, his arms tightened their hold, pulling Mycroft closer still. His legs shifted, slotting one of Mycroft’s longer legs perfectly between well-muscled thighs.

Oh. _Oh_. That was… wonderful.

And suddenly, Mycroft could not think of a single reason they had to wake up just yet. He made his decision and, uncharacteristically indulgent, let himself slip back into a doze.

Smiling, he drifted just on the edge of true sleep for as long as he could, mind cataloging every detail of this unexpected bliss. The feel of Greg's skin wherever they touched bare. The astonishing way they seemed to just fit together. The soft puff of breath against the top of his head.

Greg, warm and solid underneath him. Wrapped around him.

Greg’s hand hot against the small of his back, only the fine, thin weave of his shirt separating their skin. There was something about the possessiveness of it. The feeling of belonging to someone, of being cherished, however illusory, was nothing short of extraordinary. And something Mycroft would have shunned with anyone else.

He had never felt more comfortable, or more comforted, and this after the anxiety of the last several days. He had been nearly crippled with worry over Sherlock going miss– over Sherlock’s relapse into heroin.  Now, lulled by the rhythmic combination of their breathing, he fell deeper into sleep.

When Greg stretched out his legs nearly an hour later, and began to stir with purpose, Mycroft came awake again as well, but not quickly enough to prevent himself from actually burrowing closer this time. Not quickly enough to contain the small noises of disappointment he murmured against Greg's throat. He didn’t come fully awake until he felt arms tightening around him once again, the hand on his back moving upward slowly in a near caress, as his hair was ruffled by a surprised exhale.

“Well, good morning,” Greg rumbled above him, voice slow and sleepy, tinged with amusement.

Mycroft startled, jerking one arm from its resting place behind Greg’s back, and began to pull away.

“Wait. Mycroft, it’s okay.” Greg soothed before chuckling softly. “Won’t tell anyone that the head secret squirrel’s also a secret cuddler. Promise.”

Embarrassed now, overwhelmed, Mycroft couldn’t even begin to fathom the words to explain himself, let alone speak them. He had to leave, needed to… _This. This was the reason it couldn’t – didn’t – last past waking._

 _Oh?_ With considerable effort, Mycroft willed himself to stop and pay attention. Attention to the way Greg’s gentle hands tried to coax him into staying on the sofa. To the warmth in the man’s teasing. He willed himself to trust that Greg’s kindness extended to Mycroft as well. To stay.

He hesitated, considering, and then slowly relaxed back into Greg’s arms, laying his head down against the man’s shoulder. Together they sighed in contentment as Greg pulled him closer.

 

*** * * * ***

 

Mycroft twitched and gasped awake, sitting up on the much newer sofa in his office, three stories underground. Much newer and in far better repair, but somehow significantly less comfortable for it.

Of course he would have the dream now. His mind always insisted on it whenever he was in particular need of comfort.

He reached for his mobile, silencing the alarm, as he scrubbed one long hand tiredly over his face. More out of habit than any real need, as it turned out. He was actually feeling, if not precisely rested, then surprisingly refreshed. Calm. Centered. He knew by now to thank the dream for that more than the catnap.

It was patently ridiculous to take so much solace from the memory of sleeping arms holding him. Especially when the sleeper had been unaware anything occurred until the very end, an end Mycroft deeply regretted at that. Especially when he and Greg had never discussed it. Not once in six years, despite the improbable friendship that had grown between them. But there was no changing the fact that somehow he did. Sentiment was ever a baffling thing.

As he moved back to his desk, Mycroft straightened his sleeves and tie, and smoothed the line of his trousers. He retrieved his waistcoat, fastening the buttons with precise motions, and donned his jacket, reassembling the armor.

It was just a waiting game now. The agents and the strike team he had dispatched would be in position in little more than an hour. Mycroft closed his eyes and called up his mental maps of the warehouse layout, of the grounds surrounding it, and his own analyses of the most likely parties involved.

He would be handling this mission in the literal sense, a more direct role than he usually took of late, but he did like to keep his hand in.

 

*** * * * ***

 

“Not enough wars to keep you occupied elsewhere, brother mine? Are you really so very bored that you couldn’t keep your long nose out of my affairs for three miserable days? Am I supposed to be flattered…”

The bitter diatribe was at once music to Mycroft’s ears, and like so many nails on such a dizzying array of chalkboards that his head began to ache with it.

He felt almost absurdly grateful.

And wasn’t that a metaphor for their entire relationship?

“I would think you’d be sufficiently pleased not to be bleeding from any new holes through your flesh, brother mine, to express a little more gratitude.”

“I had _everything_ under control!”

Knowing that Sherlock was trying to provoke him only rarely prevented it from being effective. “It was an ambush! There were six snipers with guns trained on you. Sherlock Holmes, you were about to be executed.”

“I would have figured something out.” The timbre of the familiar retort sounded off. Arrogant as ever, but perhaps a bit more shrill?

Mycroft forced himself to stand down, refusing to dignify such poor logic with a response. Sherlock promptly responded in kind: a standoff. Then, slowly, the silence on the other end of the phone became something more contemplative.

“Six snipers? I only counted five.”

Mycroft smiled. “In the northeast corner. In the rafters above the catwalk.”

“Oh…” Mycroft could practically hear Sherlock’s mind whirring with this new information, calling up an image of the dank warehouse and reviewing his mental map of everyone present. He smiled again fondly at the annoyed little huff of recognition when Sherlock finally saw it.

“Right. It’s always something,” his brother muttered to himself.

“Yes, well, I suppose you were a bit preoccupied at the time. What with nearly meeting a great bloody end and all.” Mycroft winced internally. That had come out a bit harsher than he’d intended. “And with comporting yourself rather admirably for all that. Your presence was… helpful today.” Another wince. And that a bit wetter. But the sentiments behind both statements were equally true.

Sherlock’s indignant squawk abruptly turning into something closer to a preen would have been amusing under other circumstances. But he could hear his brother lighting a cigarette on the other end of the phone – the utter bastard – from a pack that crinkled with a nearly empty sound. The process required three flicks of the lighter – pulled from the same pocket as the cigarettes, not borrowed – to complete, and an exhale that sounded almost shaky underneath the usual unconscious murmur of pleasure.

“Yes, well, it certainly took you long enough to catch up with me this time,” Sherlock drawled around a long drag, steadier this time. “Cutting things a bit close, weren’t we? Middle age causing you to slip?”

Acid over-casually dispensed, more a cover for the crack in his façade than entirely out of long habit. But also a hook, an intentional prolonging of the conversation. This was… concerning.

“Middle age comes to us all. Though baby brothers failing to grasp that the essential point of a fact finding mission lies in sharing what one finds with the rest of the team does seem to be my unique cross to bear.”

The mutual antagonism was strangely comforting in its familiarity. And easy to keep up while Mycroft considered the best tactics for trying to elicit real information from Sherlock – a virtual impossibility – and a promise to have his wounds tended – even less likely – before his brother changed his mind and ended the call.

 

*** * * * ***

 

Mycroft scrubbed one hand tiredly over his face as he set the phone down, finally ending his last call. This time the need was genuine as bone-deep exhaustion settled in. He opened his bottom desk drawer and retrieved the Dunhills from their hiding place at the back. The flints sparked into flame with the first flick of the lighter, but the hand lighting the cigarette did so with an uncharacteristic tremble. He sighed deeply. The first hit of nicotine was exquisite, especially after so many months denying himself, but he was certain that his first exhale was every bit as shaky as Sherlock’s.

The operation had been as much an actual arms deal as an ambush, the respective scope and intended viciousness of which matched his analysis so closely as to be termed exact by nearly anyone else. The original intended targets were all present, and had been neutralized, plus six bonus mercenaries they would no longer have to worry about later in the game. They had prevented an impressive amount of contraband from further circulation. And Sherlock’s preliminary report – pried from him grudgingly during their lengthy conversation – suggested that the information retrieved might prove even more valuable than they had hoped.

Objectives met, surpassed even, and with only the most minimal of causalities. A successful mission by anyone’s measure. And his dear brother had even accepted needed medical attention with only a modicum of the usual required bullying. An unprecedented success, that.

But he could not keep his mind from churning over how close everything had come to disaster, how close he had come to losing… Change one small detail here, lose a few precious seconds there, and the outcome could have been devastating.  

With a growl of impatience, Mycroft flicked the ash from the end of his cigarette almost angrily. He was not prone to brooding after a success. But, as ever, Sherlock’s involvement changed things.

Sherlock. He took another long drag and let it out slowly, contemplating the tendrils of smoke as they curled together and then lazily dissipated. The hardships of the constant hunt were wearing on him. Badly. That much was clear. He was so fragile on the phone underneath all of the bluster. So desperate for Mycroft’s attention, even as he danced between pushing his older brother away and clinging to him.

It wasn’t a danger night. This was something different.

Something Mycroft feared might prove much worse in the coming days.

It was all he could do not to call Anthea to work through the necessary logistics and begin scheduling a flight immediately. His uncomfortable relationship with field work be damned. Except…

There were still far too many eyes in far too many places for Mycroft to go haring off to Albania immediately following today’s mission. No cover story could be sufficiently plausible to account for that. He dared not risk the consequences, including to Sherlock’s sanity, if everything imploded now. Besides, no matter how much he had seemed to beg for Mycroft’s company, Sherlock was likely to slink off elsewhere like an embarrassed cat the moment he arrived. And both brothers needed him to remain at the safe house, healing, for as long as he could stand the inactivity.

Mycroft stabbed his cigarette out violently, pushing the dirty ashtray aside on his desk to be dealt with later. One thing was certain, he would not see any more sleep this night. Remaining at the office to work had its appeal. But he doubted he could focus enough to accomplish much, and he was unwilling to live with Anthea's disapproving sighs in the morning. Not when he knew that on some level she had a point.

Right. He needed to get out here.

The Diogenes, usually his refuge, sounded woefully unappealing. He didn't think he could deal with other people, even in silence, and he knew he could not bear the forced cheer of the Christmas decorations. Classic and tasteful though they were, even the thought of striding past the garland as he retreated to his rooms made him twitch.

His own flat had no such issues, but he couldn’t seem to make himself move in that direction either. Too sterile. Too empty.

Christ, if _he_ was having this much trouble settling down, keeping his own thoughts from torturing him, what must Sherlock…

His mobile vibrated discretely on his desk. _Bloody hell, what now?_

He grabbed the thing with the air of a man about to pull off a painfully placed sticking plaster, only to sag with relief at the words on the screen:

Text Message: Lestrade

_Finished saving the world, yet? Have you eaten?_

_Today I mean, Holmes._

The message stared at him warmly just above the previous two that had gone unanswered:

_Still on for drinks, then?_

Sent when Mycroft was already an hour late for their appointment two evenings ago. It was followed 90 minutes later by the understanding and pragmatic:

_Have fun storming the castle._

He’d noted them at the time. (Had even smiled over the second one. Such a ridiculous movie, as Greg's choices tended to be, yet there was no denying he’d enjoyed it.) And then promptly filed them away to address later, as the current crisis demanded. The DI would understand all too well.

It was a surprising contradiction, given the thoughts of a few moments before, but the idea of an evening with Greg _was_ appealing. More than that, it calmed him. But not at a restaurant and certainly not a pub. The very thought was overwhelming.

_London’s traffic is well in order, thank you._

_But I fear I am poor company tonight and find the thought of other people loathsome. - MH_

Lestrade’s response arrived quickly:

_Clearly you’ve not stuck you head outside recently._

_Other people are loathsome. Seen far too much of that today. Christmas music makes it worse._

The sound of Mycroft’s quiet, sincere laughter broke the tense silence pervading the room. If such a thing were possible, Greg might actually find Christmas even more of a trial than he did. And the man had such a way of putting things.

_Your error is in assuming that well in order is the same as to your liking._

_Christmas music in quantity is indeed torture, and the profusion of garish decorations qualifies as a visual assault. - MH_

A laughing emoticon appeared on his screen in response – the sort of gesture he would have detested from anyone else, had anyone else the gall to send him such a thing – followed a few moments later by:

_Come over to mine. Curry, poor company and I promise you not a fairy light or scrap of tinsel in sight._

_Sound good?_

It sounded like heaven, in fact. Like there might be something good and salvageable in the middle of this hellish week after all.

 

*** * * * ***

 

Gazing out into the rain from Greg's living room window, Mycroft scowled at the great swathes of darkness now blighting parts of the otherwise glittering city. Once again, the universe saw fit to correct any small amount of optimism he might begin to entertain for himself. Still, at least the cause was merely annoying rather than something more sinister.

“Will we be getting called back to work then?” Greg asked from deeper within the darkened room behind him. His voice was already resigned to an even longer night, heading back into the fray. “You didn’t exactly react as if this were planned.”

Mycroft smiled briefly, grateful to be in rare company where he didn’t have to explain or defend a habit of vigilance that most would consider paranoia.

“Highly unlikely. I can think of four, perhaps five different outcomes someone might hope to achieve involving any parts of this particular pattern of power grids, none of them terribly interesting.” Or even remotely worth the effort. And taken all together the path of the outage was too predictable to be anything other than what it appeared to be. “I’m afraid the only thing criminal here is the sheer abundance of cheap fairy lights and the older transformers’ ability to handle them in the damp.”

Greg chuckled, the sofa springs creaking slightly as he sat back down. “Yet one more mark against the festive season."

Quite. And yet one more reason he was dreading leaving the refuge of this flat. Coming here tonight had been a balm for his anxious mind. Soothed with comfort food, and Laphroaig, and the presence of a man who cared enough to invite him home and provide him with both, he felt something closer to at ease for the first time in days. But he knew he wasn't particularly good company under the best of circumstances, and even less so tonight.

Silent and disappearing into his head for long spells, resurfacing only to join in complaining about the upcoming holiday. He blamed Moriarty, and Sherlock. And, if he were honest, the dream. This was the first time he had sat with Greg, and on this very same sofa no less, so soon after having the dream. He was surprised to find that there were… feelings… lingering. Longing. Need. A little guilt. Regret. It was distracting.

Mycroft could not imagine any other outcome than Lestrade heaving a subtle sigh of relief and using the power outage as an excuse not to prolong the evening. He was already reaching into his pocket for his phone, contemplating the amount of time it would take for his driver to retrieve him with so many signals out, when Greg's voice interrupted his reverie.

“So why don’t you leave off the window for a bit, come back over here and finish telling me about the horrors of Christmas alone with your mum and dad.”

Greg's mobile screen glowed dimly to life as he used the modest illumination to pour himself another two fingers of scotch without spilling. He held Mycroft’s glass up in question, eyes glittering in the shadows.

Mycroft cocked his head in surprise, and sighed inwardly in relief. “Yes, thank you,” he replied, finding his way carefully back to the sofa and resuming his seat.

The light turned off again; it was best to conserve the battery, just in case.

“Wonderful,” Greg said with a grin, the barest flash of white teeth showing in the moonlight, “then maybe we can talk about what’s actually bothering you.”

Mycroft remained silent, shooting him a warning glare even as he realized it could not be seen. The moon was waxing tonight, near to full. With the curtains open wide, there was enough light to discern the shapes of things, and even some details, but nothing so detailed as an expression, however notoriously quelling.

Even so. “Right. Now _that’s_ impressive.” Greg's voice was amused. “Always knew that eyebrow raise of yours could even make its presence known in the dark. Now I have proof.”

Mycroft made a derisive noise. “And yet, clearly ineffective for all that.”

“Well, no less effective than it ever is with me.”

All too true. “Smugness does not become you, Detective Inspector.” And wasn’t that a lie.

Mycroft reached for his scotch, the pure white of his shirt sleeve merely one more shade of grey in the darkness. The movement brought him closer to Greg, an unintentional benefit he briefly paused to consider before settling into his new place on the cushions. The truly astonishing thing was that he wanted to unburden himself to Greg. Mycroft shook his head, bemused. The urge to share anything at all was nearly unheard of but, much like the removal of his coat, pieces of armor tended to fall away in this flat.

The sound of the rain beating against the windows grew more pronounced as outside the storm intensified. Greg’s hand gripped his knee and then retreated, a brief offer of reassurance, before the man broke the silence again.

“More problems with our wayward charge, then?”

Mycroft laughed, but there was no humor in it. “Oh God yes,” he confirmed, surprised yet again how much comfort there was in having another person understand.

Although it had taken him the better part of a year to see through the Holmes brothers’ ruse, Greg knew that Sherlock was alive. It was the curse of befriending a detective. Mycroft had some suspicions as to how, but the damnable man took a frankly annoying amount of joy in not explaining himself. It rankled – oh God did it rankle – but was a price he was more than willing to pay for understanding and forgiveness, the blessing of having befriended a detective.

“Great git still not playing nicely with his information?”

“No, he’s not, and it almost got him killed this week. Again. He’s…”

Mycroft paused, thought it through, then proceeded anyway. Haltingly at first, but soon the darkness and the sounds of the rain made it easier to unburden himself. He half-turned to face Greg as he spoke, drawing one knee up onto the sofa and leaning harder into the cushions, in an unconscious mirror of Greg’s posture. Primarily a series of his own impressions, he revealed no names, no location specifics, and only a few actual details. The barest of reports for anyone else, a staggering revelation of information for Mycroft Holmes.

"…and the worst part of it was, after he railed at me for meddling, after we bickered, after all of the usual, he… thanked me. Naturally, the cursing resumed almost immediately, but he actually thanked me for pulling him out of… there.”

Greg reached out to console him again, finding the hand that Mycroft had resting on his knee. The touch was warm and heavy, grounding. Greg’s hand squeezed his gently, then relaxed, lingering for the space of a sigh before retreating.

“Fuck, Mycroft, that’s… Fuck.”

“That, unfortunately, is an accurate assessment of the situation.”

“Is there any way you can pull him out for a few weeks?” Greg huffed in frustration and continued before Mycroft could answer. “’Course not. He’d never let you.”

“I have tried, of course. There are things he has assisted me with from a more analytical standpoint, but never for more than a few days before everything’s boring.” Before their usual bickering escalated into full-blown arguments. “And this time… no, he won’t come in.”  

He sipped thoughtfully at his scotch, letting the rich, smoky liquor linger on his tongue for a moment before continuing. “And I can’t go to him, not that he would stay if I did. I’ve considered every angle and there is no way to guarantee it won’t expose the whole mission.”

The third time that Greg's steadying hand landed on his knee, Mycroft held on just a little tighter as it began to pull away, silently asking him to stay. People didn’t just touch him, certainly not to comfort him. Tonight of all nights he found he did not want to part with it. Greg paused for a moment, thinking, then moved closer, until his knee lightly brushed Mycroft’s and the angle was more comfortable for his hand.

Mycroft closed his eyes for a moment and just breathed, the contact calming him. Eventually he broke the silence.

“He’s not wrong in theory. The sooner we finish the mission, the sooner he can come home. But it rather defeats the purpose if we lose him in the process.” _Not to mention, it would break my heart._

Greg's voice was at once exasperated and fond. “Sounds like he’s not the only one at the end of his tether, Mycroft.”

“That’s… irrelevant.”

Lightning flashed, briefly illuminating Greg’s concerned expression, as the rain continued drumming its song against the building. Greg turned his hand over under Mycroft’s, knitting their fingers together for another reassuring squeeze. Paused. Then stayed. Mycroft absentmindedly counted the seconds until he could hear the thunder rumbling in the distance, a compulsion leftover from childhood, while he marveled over this unexpected development. Over the strength he drew from their clasped hands. Fourteen seconds. Just under three miles away.

Greg hummed thoughtfully. “Do you have anything official you can believably be doing somewhere near the mad bastard?” He suggested. “Just far enough away to be challenging? Find a way to let him know–”

 _Genius._ “Yes, just so. Let him know that I will be involved with something critical for several days and far too busy to deal with his nonsense.”

Mycroft grasped Greg’s hand a little tighter in his excitement. _Yes, Greece could work well for this. Or possibly Italy._ Finances, security measures, there were several priority issues on which his various counterparts had requested his assistance. They were just never quite as high priority as everything else on his radar. That, and they were also tedious.

Greg’s dark eyes glinted mischievously in the moonlight, another flash of lightning revealing the grin. “Of course, I know how much you’ll hate missing Christmas at home. So there is that to consider.”

Mycroft could not keep from laughing at that, the ridiculous giggle he hated. (Fourteen seconds again.) The same one that Greg seemed to go out of his way to elicit.

“Of course I am devastated. But needs must.”

It was a near perfect plan, from someone who understood both Sherlock and the brothers’ relationship. Mycroft going to Sherlock would never work, but Mycroft going near Sherlock with stated intent to ignore him? That was a different story entirely. Especially if the location was a bit of a puzzle. Soon Greg’s voice, the storm, and indeed the darkness faded into the background as Mycroft compared the relative merits of the places he might stay. There was privacy to consider, difficulty of accessibility, alarm system complexity… proximity to favorite restaurants. If he left in two days that should give Sherlock time to…

The mood in the room shifted. Mycroft came back to reality, blinking owlishly as he tried to determine what had changed. In front of him on the sofa, knee still lightly pressed against his, Greg had gone very still. With a start Mycroft realized that he had been absentmindedly stroking Greg’s hand while his mind wandered through plan details. Running his fingers over the open palm, tracing the lines he found there one by one. _Oh fuck._

He didn’t so much pause as freeze, paralyzed with uncertainty how to proceed. Of course Greg would be kind, but that was almost worse. _Damn._ He blamed the lingering effects of the dream, the soothing powers of this flat and this sofa, and ridiculous bloody sentiment for relaxing his barriers. Forcing him to reveal–

 _Five seconds. One mile._ Christ, he hadn’t even noticed the flash of lightning, or the fact that part of his mind was still compulsively counting. But that realization focused him completely back into the moment, on the way they were both frozen – specifically the way that Greg had not pulled away – and on their breathing – Greg was trying to control his, indicating… _Oh? Oh._

 _But that doesn’t make any logical_ –

Slowly, deliberately, Greg curled one finger up and back, running it across Mycroft’s palm from his wrist to the base of his index finger. _Oh God._ Mycroft shuddered, stifling a gasp. _Not just being kind then– Oh._ Greg curled a second finger across his palm.

Mycroft still didn’t understand. How – how was it even possible that Greg wanted this too? Or for so small a touch to feel so important? But of one thing he was certain: he was not going to throw away another opportunity with this man.

Before he could overthink things, Mycroft dragged his own fingers across Greg’s palm, gently uncurling the fingers as he moved. He stroked lightly across the open hand, enjoying the way Greg’s fingers flexed wide, an obvious request for more.

Greg gasped, tried unsuccessfully to cover it up first with a cough, and then with words. “I take it you approve of my plan then?”

Mycroft smiled, thrilling to the idea that he wasn’t the only one so overcome by a touch of hands, and began a more deliberate exploration. Learning each line, tracing the pattern of Greg’s callouses, appreciating the contrasting smoothness still apparent at the base of his ring finger.

“Oh yes. An excellent plan. Nothing short of brilliant.” He agreed, voice a rich, satisfied purr that he barely recognized as his own.

“Well, detective, me. Good with alibis.”

Greg’s voice was steadier than before, and more playful. He took over the lead, grasping Mycroft’s hand, his thumb rubbing up in a slow circle over the inside of his wrist. Pressing, circling under the crisp fold of his French cuff. All while the damnable man commented pleasantly, teasingly, on some thing or the other from work. Mycroft tried to remember how to nod and respond in the right places, because that appeared to be the game they were playing now.

Another flash of lightning, a long, slow roll of thunder – moving further away now, passing on – but Mycroft had long since stopped counting. This was – dear God! – and Greg was only touching his wrist. A scant few inches of perfectly innocent flesh, free of any overt sexual connotation. But no one had ever… and here he was sighing with it, leaning forward for more skin, more touch.

His free hand found Greg’s arm, gloriously bare below the sleeve of one of the soft, worn t-shirts he tended to favor after work. Mycroft supposed that on some level the disparity in clothing coverage was unfair, but he was hardly going to cede such a rewarding advantage. He had his reputation as a negotiator to consider after all.

Greg’s skin was softer here along the bicep and, he remembered, paler from less exposure. He traced the line of muscle with his fingers, harder with his thumb, reveling in the shiver each pass produced. In the feel of the goose pimples that rose under his fingertips. In Greg reacting to _his_ touch.

“Yes, I understand,” he agreed, all overstated sympathy, as Greg stuttered to a halt mid-sentence. Mycroft smiled, certain at least some hint of it conveyed itself to Greg in the dark. He really was quite fond of games.

…As clearly was Greg. The hand caressing his wrist changed tactics, laying Mycroft’s hand down, requesting him to stay with a touch. More deftly than Mycroft would have guessed, Greg unfastened the clasp of his cufflink, and let it drop to the table with a gentle clink, white gold shot through with thin bands of lapis lazuli, a tiny glint of metal in the moonlight. Apparently Greg and Mycroft were also in agreement on advantages, and the need to create one if it did not otherwise exist.

Greg brushed the placket of the sleeve apart, folding the sides back, the sweep of Egyptian cotton raising a shiver of expectation. Mycroft bit back a whimper and stared, entranced by the sight of Greg’s fingers now skating boldly over the too pale flesh of his arm, made luminous in the moonlight. Stroking, caressing, just Greg’s skin on his now, uninterrupted by a barrier of fabric. Yet Mycroft had never been more aware of the weight of his shirt against his body, of the texture of the fine weave, draping over flesh suddenly alight with sensation.

They had both given up all pretense of talking now.

When Greg raised Mycroft’s wrist to his lips for a long, slow kiss, with a quick flash of tongue, the barest scape of teeth, he could no longer hold in the sound. His moan echoed loudly in the quiet room, deep and raw and wanting. He reached out for Greg again with his free hand, sliding up the man’s thigh, grasping for his hip, eager to pull him closer.

Mycroft would treasure the sound of Greg’s answering laugh – deep, lusty and glad – for as long as he lived. Greg rose up on his knees, letting himself be tugged forward, hands skimming up Mycroft’s sides to his back.

Mycroft’s hands roamed restlessly over Greg’s hips, while he soaked up the sensation. Not quite brave enough to reach further. Not just yet. And Greg was close, so much closer than he has ever been outside of that one magical, oft-remembered morning. If Mycroft wanted to, if he stretched just a little further, they could–

 

*** * * * ***

 

With a pop and a crackle power returned to the building. Both men froze, hands falling away from one another as, unconsciously, they moved apart and sat blinking in surprise in the sudden light. It was just the one, rather ugly lamp next to the sofa, the only one they had neglected to turn off when the power went out. But the room seemed shockingly bright in the aftermath of their long, shadowy interlude.

Greg looked – well the man was always stunning – but like this, rumpled, panting slightly, cheeks flushed with color, he was delicious. His silver hair was disheveled, standing up in four different directions. Sadly only from his own hand thus far, but that was something Mycroft intended to remedy in short order.

He started to reach for Greg when the man looked up. His beautiful brown eyes were wide with surprise, but the playfulness of a moment ago had vanished. In its place lay something almost sad, resigned; something much closer to the times Greg ended the evening with a call to a crime scene than anything that made sense in the current situation.

“Sort of breaks the spell, doesn’t it,” Greg said softly, glancing around a living room that now looked much the same as it always did, and at Mycroft, now perched nearly as far away as he usually sat.

Half drunk on the lingering sensation of roughened fingers moving softly over his skin, dazed from the sudden change in mood, it took Mycroft longer than usual to assess the situation. It was all too easy for the part of him that had always been primed for Greg’s gentle rejection to read this as a change of heart. Understandable, really, once the emotion of the moment had fled and the lights were back on. But something about that analysis felt off, and he desperately did not want this evening to turn into another glorious memory fragment contained within a much larger regret.

One way or the other the light was part of the problem…

Mycroft leaned closer to Greg, catching the other man’s eyes again. “Nothing has broken,” he insisted softly, reaching past him for the light.

Which he couldn’t quite reach. _Damn._

If he left the sofa, Mycroft feared that Greg would move further away, that the mood creeping into the room would make it too awkward not to move back to their usual positions. He reached for his umbrella where it rested against the arm of the sofa, intending to hook the ring at the end of the pull chain and turn the lamp off.  

Professed distaste for legwork aside, there had been a time when Mycroft was highly regarded for his field work. Unfortunately, that time was more than a decade prior and this was never in his skillset. He misjudged the angle, slipped, and knocked the lamp off the table.

Darkness flooded the room once more as the distinctive clang of metal denting was followed by several more delicate sounds of destruction, including the no less distinctive pop of a light bulb bursting. Brilliant.

“All right,” Mycroft conceded sourly, as he allowed his umbrella to drop to the floor. “Perhaps your lamp is broken. But the spell is intact.”

Of course, that was the question though, wasn’t it?

Night vision obliterated, he had no way to gauge the reaction of the vaguely human-shaped, somewhat darker shadow among shadows in front of him. Then Greg began to laugh, a warm, inviting sound that always made Mycroft’s stomach flip a little.

“I can’t believe you did that!”

Mycroft sagged in relief. It had taken him years, but he understood Greg’s humor now and could detect the oddly approving note. Rather than responding like an offended cat, this time he could not help laughing himself. It felt wonderful, freeing somehow.

As their mirth subsided, Greg leaned into Mycroft and their hands found each other again in the darkness, fingers knitting together tightly. Eventually Greg’s thumb began to stroke against the back of Mycroft’s hand. Slowly, almost hesitantly. A question.

“Please,” Mycroft said softly, tugging on their joined hands to pull Greg closer. Gently at first, then more insistently. “No more teasing. Come here. Come here and kiss me at once.”

Greg groaned happily and surged forward, the sofa creaking with his movement. Eager hands gripped Mycroft’s arms, pulling him into an embrace, tight against the warm expanse of chest he’d dreamed of so vividly since waking up on this sofa six years ago. Better than the dream, superior to the memory in every way because they were both awake and clinging to one another, because this time he had permission to touch.

His fingers found Greg’s face, tracing the gorgeous line of his jaw with something akin to wonder, light stubble prickly beneath his questing fingertips. Greg sighed into the contact and brought his hand up to cup Mycroft’s cheek, cradling it as if he were something precious.

The first press of lips was tentative, and ever so slightly off the mark as their eyes struggled to re-acclimate to the dark, yet somehow all the more perfect for it. Slowly they slid into alignment and then – _Oh. Oh!_ – they were kissing. Soft and languid, a tender exploration of mouths that had Mycroft aching for more, moaning into Greg’s mouth at the first glide of tongue, as his hands slipped restlessly over the planes of Greg’s back.

Mycroft knew he would never think of this act as _just_ kissing again. The difference between the mechanical, almost obligatory kisses of his previous experience, and this – deep, passionate, redolent with feeling – too profound to explain in words.

Greg pulled away to trail his lips across Mycroft’s jaw, lingering when he found the place just below his ear that made him whimper and clutch at Greg’s shoulders. Teasing until Mycroft left off the shoulders to grab for his own tie, hastily tugging the knot free, fumbling at his own buttons, desperate to feel Greg’s mouth on more of his skin.

Greg moaned long and low in response. “Fuck, Mycroft,” he breathed against his lover’s throat. “That’s so… God yes. Please.”

Greg pressed Mycroft back into the cushions, kissing the hollow of his throat almost reverently, before mapping the rest of the newly exposed skin with lips and tongue, the occasional deft application of teeth. Batted Mycroft’s hands away to finish the buttons on his own, slowly revealing more flesh to explore. Moans and sighs, punctuated by the occasional whimper; Mycroft had never been so vocal in his life. He blushed unseen in the darkness and plunged his hands into Greg’s silver hair at last, raking his nails through the thick, silky stands, until Greg was practically purring.

It was perfect. It was everything.

It was nowhere near enough.

Mycroft clenched his hands in the well-worn cotton of Greg’s old t-shirt, pulling on it, trying to make his lips form the request. Greg sat up, half straddling Mycroft, yanked his shirt off over his head and dropped it to the floor. _Oh dear Lord._

 

 

An hour or a lifetime later, he could no longer tell, Mycroft’s entire world had concentrated into this: naked in Greg’s lap, trading deep, shivery kisses while they mapped each other’s bodies. A gorgeous blur of hands and lips and so much feeling that Mycroft was overwhelmed, undone.

He leaned down and laved at Greg’s throat, sucked bruises onto those tempting shoulders. It was not possible to get his fill of this: Greg Lestrade, utterly bare in the moonlight. Christ, but the man was exquisite. With a noise of pure want, he reached out to touch again, following the lines of silvering hair with shaking hands, tracing fingertips across his chest and down, down. Studying, memorizing. Adoring.

Greg’s clever hands smoothed their way up his thighs to grip his arse, kneading, caressing, pulling him closer so that his mouth could worship Mycroft’s chest. Because worship, yes, dear God, that was the only way to describe this: kisses rough then tender, lips and teeth and tongue finding more sensitive places than Mycroft even knew existed. When he realized he could _feel_ that roguish smile against his nipple just before Greg began to suck, it was all he could do not to come on the spot.

The Lestrade of Mycroft’s dreams offered him the illusion of being cherished, a sticking plaster for the gaping need he could only acknowledge in sleep. Joyfully, playfully, Greg offered him a night filled with the real thing.

Mycroft sighed as Greg’s hand found his cock again. Long, slow, gorgeous pulls with a firm grip had him arching into the touch. Hands braced behind him on Greg’s glorious thighs, he leaned back and moaned, no longer caring how he must look, how he must sound. Everything was pleasure, shared pleasure, white hot and shockingly good.

“God, Mycroft, look at you,” Greg husked against his throat, lips brushing lightly against overheated skin. “Always thought you were too far out of reach – too perfect for me to touch.”

Mycroft’s heart flipped at the sound of actual wonder in the man's voice. Greg thought _he_ was too perfect?

“I could say the same of you,” he breathed, gasping as Greg twisted his wrist just so. Sitting back up, he leaned over Greg, pressing their foreheads together, looking into his eyes. “Never too perfect,” he insisted, panting. “And please. _Please_. For the love of all that is holy, keep touching me.”

Greg’s answering laugh was a low, lusty rumble that went straight to his cock, stoking the fire that much hotter. “Oh, I intend to.”

 

*** * * * ***

 

Afterwards, Mycroft came back to himself slowly, decadently. He was tangled up naked with Greg, once more plastered across the man’s chest, cuddling on the sofa.

The sofa itself had certainly not improved with age. Perhaps the upholstery was a bit less scratchy in places where some of the coarser fibers had come out, but there was considerably more of his bare skin resting against it this time. The bar still dug into his hip. And there was simply no place in the world he would rather be right now.

“That was…”

Mycroft tried, but he couldn’t coax his brain into finding words that adequately described what he was feeling. Getting no further than a deeply contented sigh, he settled on nuzzling into Greg’s neck instead, brushing a kiss against the stubble at the line of his jaw.

Greg laughed, a happy, thoroughly sated sound. “Never thought I’d see the day when you were at a loss for words.”

Mycroft made a vague noise of agreement. Wit seemed like far too much effort at the moment.

He realized that he should hate this. He could not remember his brain ever going this far offline or for this long after sex. But the end result was rather like floating, or being pleasantly tipsy on excellent whiskey. Better. It was the most relaxed he’d felt in years, perhaps ever.

Greg started to shift, preparing to get up from the sofa but, no, Mycroft had no desire to move apart just yet. Not one second before they had to, thank you very much.

“Must you?” Asked with a disappointed grumble as he tried to burrow closer.

Greg laughed again, surprised. “Was just going to get us a towel, or…  What was I thinking? You are the genius.”

“Just so.” He nodded for emphasis and because it made Greg laugh longer.

Eventually Greg reached down to retrieve his castoff t-shirt from the floor, using it to clean them both up before casually discarding it off to the side again. Mycroft wrinkled his nose a bit in distaste, primarily at the thought of accidentally finding it again later, but he could not help but admire a practical solution.

Greg pulled the blanket from the back of the sofa down over them both. He drew Mycroft into an even closer embrace, pressing kisses to the top of his head with a joy that suggested Mycroft had done something particularly clever just by wanting to stay here.

“I can’t believe you broke my lamp.” Greg said later, after they had both recovered somewhat more.

Mycroft could hear the smile in his voice, and, again, that oddly approving note. Be that as it may. “Ah yes, that. I shall, of course, replace it.”

“You will _not_. I’ll replace the bulb, but I want to look at whatever cracks and dents the beastly thing has from now on and remember.” Punctuated with another kiss, another hug that never quite ended.

Mycroft briefly considered not asking. At this point the question fell well within the parameters of what he would usually consider unnecessary. And yet he still felt the strangest need to hear the story in Greg’s words. 

“What did you mean by not wanting to break the spell?”

Greg ducked his head into Mycroft’s shoulder, almost shy, and for several moments Mycroft wondered if he would answer.

“Well, there was this evening… Years ago it was. You probably don’t remember.”

Mycroft didn’t even bother trying to stifle his unimpressed snort.

“Yeah, all right. Of course, you remember everything.” Greg paused, and the hand resting on Mycroft’s hip began petting him absentmindedly. “Only, I’m not sure it would stick out for you as being particularly memorable.  It was the second time Sherlock detoxed at my flat. We were so knackered, you and I, that we fell asleep together on this sofa. And when we woke up…”

Mycroft held his breath during the long pause that followed as Greg searched for words. Finally the man shook his head, having apparently reached a conclusion, and began again. “You were in my arms and it was like a dream. And that memory has been… It’s a good memory for me, Mycroft. Right up until the part where I broke the spell and fucked everything up somehow.”

 _Oh God._ Mycroft reached for Greg’s hand, stilling the nervous motion and held on.

“You didn’t ‘fuck’ everything up, Greg. I did. Well,” he conceded upon reflection. “Taking your ex-wife back a few months later certainly didn’t help. You may accept blame for that part if you wish. But the rest was me. I was out of my depth and reacted poorly.”

He raised Greg’s hand to his lips, feeling the man relax against him as he kissed each knuckle. “I’ve regretted ever since,” he confessed. “But I had no idea how to repair the damage and start over. You’re right. It is a good memory. One that has meant a great deal to me as well.”

Greg’s sigh of relief was palpable. He buried his face in Mycroft’s hair, hugging him tight and inhaling deeply, ruffling the unruly curl at the top with a puff of breath.

“Fixing this is easy,” Greg said tenderly. “Let me take you bed. Please. Now. So we can wake up in each other’s arms again. And stay this time.”

Mycroft groaned happily into Greg’s shoulder. Nothing could have sounded more perfect. Except, perhaps…

“Yes, please. And later, when we have both rested and the sun in up, I want you to open the curtains and make love to me in daylight.”


End file.
